Tag: Humor

Helpful Farm Definitions

~ sanebishop ~ 1 Comment

The other day, I happened to be riffling through the dictionary for a word when I randomly flipped to the page that contained the entry for tractor. I couldn’t help but stop and refresh my memory. According to Merriam-Webster, a tractor is a powerful motor vehicle with large rear wheels used chiefly on farms for hauling equipment and trailers.  

What a terrible definition! It’s almost as if lexicographers, trained in etymology and semantics, have little real-world knowledge of the defining qualities and singular characteristics of the mighty tractor. As an English major, who happens to own two tractors (or be owned by two tractors–I’m not sure which), I feel uniquely qualified to offer a slightly more accurate definition. A tractor is a sedentary piece of machinery with large flat rear tires used chiefly on farms to play roulette by guessing which hydraulic hose will burst next.

This farmer just hit the jackpot.

This pairs well with my definition of a farm: a farm is a rural open air casino where people can gamble wholesomely on the propagation of crops, but where Mother Nature and the Banker always win in the end. From this bedrock definition of a farm, you can then derive many other farm terms:

A farmer is a person missing a finger who is addicted to gambling on the propagation of crops. 

A farm hand is a young in-law who primarily performs grunt work and dangerous tasks and whose fingers and hands are still intact but generally considered disposable. 

A farm dog is the dog that runs off with the finger after the severance. 

A regenerative farm is dedicated to the regeneration of soil and missing fingers through adherence to  ancient and wise agrarian texts. 

A goat is an animal that trained at Houdini’s School for Escape and Get Away. 

A pig is animal certified in farmer psychoanalysis and talk therapy. 

A cow is an animal with four stomachs, but with such poor sense that it fills them all with grass. 

A chicken is the smartest animal in the barnyard kingdom, due primarily to its ability to scam farmers into building elaborate coops and enclosures in exchange for a few fresh eggs.

A fox is a wild animal that has evolved to infiltrate elaborate coops and enclosures and ruin the asset-to-income ratio for the production of a few fresh eggs. 

A farmers’ market is where a happily married man goes to sell produce and a few fresh eggs, only to have a fight off a bunch of presumptuous women who keep asking him about his spraying habits. Apparently, the sight of homegrown tomatoes is an aphrodisiac. 

An old farmhouse is a multigenerational domicile whose primary function is to provide shelter for annoying ancestral ghosts, all of whom are extremely opinionated about the never-ending home improvement projects of the living inhabitants. 

Hopefully, these definitions give you a clearer picture into the true nature of life on a farm, or at least my life on a farm, which, I admit, may not be indicative of others’ experiences, especially for farmers more competent than I am. Oddly, despite the generally harrowing nature of the above definitions, I would define farm life as a generally pleasant and rewarding way to spend one’s days on Earth.

Happy Is The Man Who Remembers

~ sanebishop ~ 4 Comments

Thomas started kindergarten this week–kindergarten! Seems like just yesterday that we were dropping him off at daycare for the first time. Okay, maybe not yesterday, but it doesn’t feel like five years. Time is strange: days drag, years fly–unless you’re a new Kindergartener with no concept of time. For Thomas, a long time ago could be an hour, month, or year. He remembers a few things from two and three. For instance, he remembers his first tornado warning, in his three-year-old class, when he and his classmates had to huddle in the daycare bathroom.

I only have a handful of vague daycare memories. I remember once having my mouth washed out with soap for spitting. I remember once having a nightmare while laying on my mat during nap time. And I remember getting my “willy” caught in my zipper. That’s it. With predominant memories like that, it’s no wonder I can’t remember anything else, which is a shame because I’m sure daycare was mostly a fun and happy experience, full of blocks and trucks and dinosaurs, much like it has been for Thomas. Why I don’t remember the fun and happy part is beyond me. It is concerning, however. 

Apparently, behind my back, my brain has been conspiring against me and erasing my happy memories without my consent. This is a treacherous thing for a brain to do, which is why you should keep your friends close, but your brain closer. Admittedly, I haven’t been checking in with my brain much, so without my support it decided to make mischief. I’m not sure I can blame it. It probably gets bored sitting up there, wobbling around all day, and doesn’t have much else to do. Or, maybe my brain is just a fan of ‘90s teen dramas, which is why it retains so many cringeworthy memories from high school–I’d rather have my infantile memories from daycare. 

By the time Thomas is my age, some technocratic billionaire will likely have developed a microchip to implant to store happy memories and bypass mischievous brains. Until then, the best we can do is check in our brains from time to time to see what they’re up to. 

Anyway, Thomas has had a great start to kindergarten. Despite all of our worries, he seems happy as the proverbial lark. And despite his happiness, when we ask him what he did in school each day, he says, “I can’t remember.” 

Forgetting happy memories starts early. 

Thomas on his first day!

Heel Kicks and Hitch Pins

~ sanebishop ~ 2 Comments

There is a certain physicality needed to farm–namely, the ability to kick. However, as a demographic group, Southerners have tended to be suspicious of kicking, likely due to its close association with the sport we call “soccer.” There are many reasons why southerners distrust soccer. Some fear it’s a scheme of the global new world order, others believe it’s unnatural for a species with opposable thumbs, and others dislike the tall socks. Whatever the reason, soccer has never really caught on in the South. It even ranks lower than other niche sports, like Nascar and competitive eating. 

I, for one, am a fan of competitive eating and Nascar and soccer. All three sports have virtues. All three sports foster skills that have applications to farm life. For instance, gobbling up large amounts of meat in a single sitting can free up freezer space after you catch a trophy largemouth bass on Friday and need to thwart aesthetic decay before taking it to the taxidermist on Monday. The ability to make left turns and drive continuously in circles, without losing interest or dehydrating oneself due to excessive drooling, is fundamental to many common farm tasks, such as plowing, drilling, and bush hogging. Farm life is rife with kicking, in various forms and for various functions.

Take, for instance, your common shovel kick. Any ole person can stomp a shovel, but a former soccer player has a competitive advantage in a drought. Why a farmer might be trying to dig a hole in a drought is irrelevant. It could be to plant a plant, dig a well, bake a potato, or dig his own grave–it doesn’t matter. What matters is form and the downward thrust needed to penetrate hardened red clay. Someone who is skilled in the movement and manipulations of the leg, who can stomp efficiently and powerfully without tiring and without resorting to jumping up and down on the shovel (a desperate and inefficient move often attempted by former basketball players), will be more drought resistant as a farmer. 

Another example: anybody who has ever had chickens also understands the importance of footwork. Despite having tiny brains, chickens instinctively know which way you want them to go. They use this instinct to go the opposite direction. Why did the chicken cross the road? Because a farmer was on the other side. To prevent chickens from moving against the grain and going against your wishes, developing a good trap will give you a leg up. In fact, a leg up is a good way to describe a trap, a soccer move in which you hold your leg up and to the side to slow and stop the movements of an incoming soccer ball or domesticated fowl. Remember, the goal is merely to slow and stop the rogue movement of the chicken, not to punt it, so again the soccer player has a foot up, even against a farmer who is a former punter. 

David Beckham demonstrate proper trap form. Imagine a chicken where the soccer ball is.

The trap should not be confused with the slide tackle, a more advanced soccer move best used to play defense against fleeing pigs. If pigs evade your slide tackle, you’re better off acquiring the services of a former cross country runner. Although they may not be experts in kicking, they know how to run across hill and dale, which is the primary skill needed when pursuing pigs. 

A slide tackle. Imagine a pig where the soccer ball is.

One final example: The heel kick is used in soccer to pass the ball backwards and commonly used in farming to unhook equipment from tractors. Simply raise your foot up, over, and inside the three-point hitch arm. Then, using your knee as a fulcrum, swing your foot backward, and wallop the inner hitch arm with your heel. This will either dislodge the hitch receiver from the pin or dislodge your foot from your leg. If the latter, soccer players have a considerable advantage because most are ambidextrous with their feet, meaning the loss of a dominant foot would have less downside for a farmer who is a former soccer player. 

A Heel Kick. Imagine a three-point hitch arm where the soccer ball is.

I could go on and on, but the point here is soccer is a valuable sport that can be used to develop skills, specifically kicking skills, that can be beneficial to farmers. For that reason, maybe one day soccer will gain acceptance and popularity in rural areas. Until then, please keep my secret that I like soccer between the two of us. If it got out, it could really hurt my reputation in the farming community.

The Hunt for Color-Coded October

~ sanebishop ~ 6 Comments

Once in a blue moon, I’ll actually grow hopeful that my wife has finally shaken free from the shackles of her obsession. But her newfound freedom never lasts. Secretly, she’ll start planning meals for the week, color coding and syncing calendars, and getting a little twitchy whenever I suggest that we just enjoy life and go with the flow. Before long, she will once again be Captain Ahab at the helm, hunting for the illusive white whale or, in her case, the illusive routine. 

photo of planner and writing materials

“If only we could get a routine,” I’ve heard her say a thousand times. 

From stories I’ve heard of old, routines did once exist. Now, most grizzled millennial parents seem to believe that routines, if not already extinct, are on the verge of extinction in our modern era. Ours is an era of endless options, when stores never close, when youth sports have no offseason, when work (through conduit of the internet) sneaks into our homes and intrudes on domestic downtime, when everything (through the conduit of the internet) vies for our attention, our time, and mostly our money. When no boundaries exist to protect our space or contain our movements, it’s no wonder that we’re “all running around,” my wife says, “like free-range chickens with our heads cut off.” She has never been a fan of free-range living. 

Admittedly, she is the chief fence builder for our lives. I have always hated building fences, both literally and figuratively, and generally recoil from the task, much like a spinning jenny recoils when I accidentally let a high tensile wire slip and spring back to form a bird’s nest tangle fit for a pterodactyl. My wife, however, has some natural aptitude toward figurative fence building, for planning and organizing and scheduling (yuck, I recoil at even typing the word). To build a routine, you have to do the same thing, at the same time, in the same order, day after day, which sounds really boring to me and really wonderful to her. 

To achieve such a boring pattern, you use things like alarms, calendars, and planners–all tools of the devil. Do you think Adam and Eve set an alarm clock in the Garden of Eden? Do you think Thoreau scheduled out his days on the banks of Walden Pond? Do you think Jimmy Buffett color coded his calendar in Margaritaville? No, he didn’t even color code his wardrobe. He just picked a parrot shirt and went to the bar.

The point here is my wife has a problem, namely her obsession to stamp out disorder in a disorderly world. Please put her on your prayer list.

Ratchet Strap Distress

~ sanebishop ~ 5 Comments

In the epic battle of man versus ratchet strap, one man stands befuddled. That described me last week when I was trying to operate a common ratchet strap. Over the years, I have had many battles with ratchet straps—rusty ones, tangled ones, and starving ones that seemed ready to chomp and swallow my fingers. But this one beat all.

“This stupid thing,” I eruditely remarked.

“Here, let me show you,” my wife interjected. No wife has ever watched her husband struggle to tame a ratchet strap and not felt the need to offer assistance. Soon man and wife will stand together, befuddled.

Ratchet straps are used to secure loads for transport. Possibly, they are used by psychologists, in experimental studies, to research and observe how men react under intense stress. I don’t remember signing up for any experimental studies, but who knows what you’re signing up for these days. Everyone, everywhere is trying to sign you up for something (for instance, if you would like, you can sign up for my free Substack newsletter, which is exactly the same as this WordPress blog).

“Can we have your email?” the clerk asked.

“Only if it helps me get out of here faster,” I responded.

So perhaps I did sign up for an experimental study as I tried to buy a few pieces of dimensional lumber—the 2 x 6s I forgot to buy earlier in the day when I was wandering through Lowes looking for an employee to guide me in my quest for a common piece of hardware. Having wasted several hours, just in trips back and forth to Lowes, I was the perfect subject for scientific research on ratchet strap distress.

In the Lowes parking lot, as I struggled to secure my 2 x 6s while ruefully lamenting all the time I had wasted—was wasting—the psychologists, observing me in secret, were probably commenting on my mental state. Likely they were hiding in the fancy duck blinds that Lowes now sells in the parking lot. Apparently, Lowes is edging into the rural lifestyle market, as evidence by these duck blinds that could also be used as second residences, or research stations for psychologists.

[Two researchers sip coffee in the duck blind and observe men securing loads in the parking lot. RESEARCHER 1 zooms in on me with her binoculars.]  

RESEARCHER 1: Judging by the color in his cheeks, which I would classify a deep burgundy, I would say this man is exhibiting extreme distress.

RESEARCHER 2: With one being a smiley face and ten the head-exploding emoji, where would you rate him on a scale of 1 to 10 in terms of ratchet strap distress?

RESEARCHER 1: He is probably at an 8 right now, considering he hasn’t yet started gesticulating. Just wait till his wife attempts to show him how to use it—he should reach 10 here shortly.

RESEARCHER 2: She just offered assistance. Wow, he vigorously declined, not even going to let her try—this is not going to end well.

RESEARCHER 1: Uh, oh, she told him to “relax.” The subject is visibly quavering—I would say the intervals between major tremors are approximately 10 seconds.

RESEARCHER 2: Judging by those spasms, shouldn’t be long till he erupts.

RESEARCHER 1: There he blows! Look how far he just flung the ratchet strap! That could be a record.

If the ratchet strap wasn’t broken before, it was now rendered inoperable, mostly because it was dangling from the top of a maple tree in a curbed island in the parking lot. In my opinion, the neon orange ratchet strap gave the homely maple an eye-catching accessory that added to the parking lot’s overall landscape design and aesthetic. Afterward, I entered Lowes for the fourth time that day and began a quest for new ratchet straps.